Ugly (post-ep for 08x04)
by leuska
Summary: SPOILERS - a post-ep for 08x04. A take on Beckett's POV during a particular scene.


**Ugly**

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 _(post-ep 08x04 fic – a POV scene insert)_

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"Relax. It doesn't mean anything," Castle says, offering the cup to her as if it were an olive branch.

Only, it does. It means something. It means _everything_. And the worst part is, she can't even tell him, has to stand here and say nothing, her silence affirming his words and it shouldn't hurt like that, but he's her husband. The single most important person in her life, and she just indirectly confirmed to him that his actions, his ministrations with which he shows his love for her, even after she's hurt him – is still hurting him by keeping him in the dark – that it doesn't mean anything.

She can't understand sometimes, how this man loves her. It would be so much easier if he was simply angry with her, angry and hurt and withdrawn. If he just wouldn't stroll around town proclaiming to anybody that would listen how he's going to win her back. If he just wouldn't make it sound like it's been _him_ who's done something wrong and is in need of atonement.

As if she needs to be won back, when her heart already is, and always will be, only his.

It cuts her in a place so deep she can't even reach, will surely leave a scar that will never fade and the worst part is, it's all on her. Her own doing; her own creation.

The foam heart shakes and Beckett finds it's because her own hands holding the mug are trembling. She gingerly takes a sip of the coffee, if for nothing else than just to hide the tremor in her fingers, because Castle is here and she requested space but she can barely stand it.

It shouldn't be like this. They shouldn't be in a marriage where her mother-in-law comes to seek her out at work only to tell her complicated means a messy divorce. God, she can't even fathom _that_ idea, her stomach churning at the mere though. And yet, his mother is right. Nothing about their situation is traditional in any sense. But a divorce?

Already, she's working herself to the ground to work this case and run the precinct at the same time, and instead of using the couple spare hours to catch on some so much needed sleep, she spends her night laying awake gazing up into the ceiling, the dread filling her making it hard to breathe because although she whole-heartedly trusts him, because she believes in him and in their marriage, there is still the tiniest possibility that she's already done too much damage, that she's taking too long. That one day, he'll just not bother to come or call because he's just had enough; of her silence, of her lies, of her absence. Or, if she takes too long, way too long, it might come a time where he'll have moved on.

It's not that simple, she knows, but it's not that complicated either. Indeed, husband and wife are expected to share a life, and she has currently excluded herself from theirs, without giving as much as a reason or a time-frame.

She takes another tiny sip of his coffee, lovingly caresses the rim of the mug, imagining for a second that the warm white ceramic are his lips instead.

A coffee from him to her.

It's not really that hard to figure out what this is, is it? A kiss hidden in a cup of coffee, a way to say – _I love you_. _Have a good day_. _I think about you_. _Come back home to me, where you belong. I miss you._

She does too, she misses him. So much it hurts to get up in the morning sometimes and go to work. To take Vicram's call and listen about another puzzle piece he uncovered. To look at Vulcan Simons's arrogant face on the cover of his file or Bracken's taunting, sneering face from the news articles she keeps hidden from prying eyes on her captain's desk.

A sudden chill runs through her and she remembers it will be November soon. It makes her sick to think about the possibility that she might not complete her mission until then, that the loft will be empty and Castle will be left to lonely stare at their wedding photo her dad took and Castle framed and placed on the piano, wondering where they've gone so wrong.

And she's done wrong, she's done _so_ wrong by him, despite that she promised.

She promised him an eternity, she promised him a friend, a partnership, the times of their lives.

All she ever wanted was to be a good wife to him, and look at them now, what she's done, the damage she causes wherever she goes. Whatever and whomever she touches, everything dies.

She is doing this so _he_ won't die. But it might kill their marriage and if anyone will be to blame, it will be on her and it will possibly be the biggest failure of her life.

She is risking them, pushing on the limits where his trust and loyalties and love is concerned, and she can't even explain to him the why.

The coffee tastes good, so good. It feels like something familiar, a caress or a touch. The smell of sleepy skin and fresh sheets, easy laughter and home and it nearly makes her cry with misery and want.

She could never make coffee like that, not even for him. His is just special. It's _magic_.

She tells him. Not in so many or such colorful words, but she does. Tries to, at least.

" _Wow_. I could never make it like you." _Could never love you like you love me._ "Even though you taught me how." _He did._

A confession and an apology. He deserves both.

He takes a step back, turns her back to her and she tries not to feel the pang of hurt, tries to remind herself that this is what she asked from him. Can't really fault him for listening to her for once in her life.

He admits to his secret ingredient then and _no, no, please don't tell me, because what if you'll stop coming around then? What if you'll really think I don't need you? But God, I need you. So much. You'll never know. Even thought you should know. You deserve to know._

She looks up at him then and it's there, at the tip of her tongue, the confession to all of her sins, the willingness to share at last, spill all of her secrets in one long, heavy breath.

But when she meets his expectant eyes, and when she looks into his hesitant face and his huge, innocent eyes, yet still full of unshakeable trust in her, and it all comes crashing down on her.

Why she's doing this. Why she absolutely can't risk it. Because of this, because of him, of who he is to her, that source of light she never thought to find in her life. And why because of just that she can't expose him to the darkness and the shadows of her life looming anywhere she goes. She can't expose him to the kind of baggage she's willingly taking with her, one she shuffles from one shoulder to the other but simply can't let go or leave behind.

She just can't. She might be damaged for it, she might be the worst wife for it. But she absolutely won't bring harm on another person – on _the_ person – for her own character's shortcoming.

She loves him. And that's why when she tells him about her old, white lie, it's to cover the ugly truth.


End file.
